The Forger's Spell - Edward Dolnick [131]
The forger scanned the room with his glasses on, while the cameras whirred and clicked, and then with his glasses off, as if at a fashion shoot. Then another survey with glasses on, and another with glasses off. He took a long moment to remove a piece of lint from his suit, as if this operation required all his concentration, and then turned his attention back to the overflowing courtroom. Finally he took his seat, flanked by two large policemen.
The judge and lawyers wore imposing black robes, but the dark paneled courtroom itself had little of its usual solemnity. Extra chairs had been added, and every seat was taken. The balcony was filled. A tall blank screen and a projector stood conspicuously in the center of the room, to help Coremans explain his scientific findings. A portrait of the queen occupied its customary place on the wall behind the judge, but today that small picture seemed pale and dreary in comparison with its two huge and gleaming neighbors, Christ at Emmaus and The Last Supper.
A New York Times reporter noted that the paintings on display “would have been the delight of any museum a few years ago,” and Van Meegeren no doubt exulted in the same thought. But of course no museum had ever put together an exhibit like this one in the court house on Prinsengracht, and Van Meegeren took the time to savor it.
Eight of his paintings lined the room. Two were “De Hooch” interiors, the other six “Vermeer” biblical scenes. Here was Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery, which had snookered Goering, and Isaac Blessing Jacob and the other masterpieces that Van Beuningen and Van der Vorm had paid millions for, and The Washing of Christ’s Feet, purchased by the Dutch state for the Rijksmuseum, also for millions. The only picture that had not cost someone a fortune was the newest of all, Jesus Teaching in the Temple, painted under Piller’s supervision. “As the cameras clicked and the flashbulbs popped, the painter admired his own paintings,” one reporter wrote. “Never before had anyone here attracted so much publicity.”
WHEN THE COMMOTION finally died down, the judge declared court in session. The prosecutor read the charges against Van Meegeren. He had obtained money by fraud, and he had signed paintings “Vermeer” and “De Hooch” in order to defraud buyers. (To copy a painting is no crime; the students in art museums are perfectly within their rights even if they go so far as to copy the artist’s signature. The trouble comes at the moment of selling the picture by misrepresenting it as an original.)
The judge turned to Van Meegeren. “Do you admit the charges?”
“I do.”
He not only admitted the charges but wallowed in them. For Van Meegeren and the two hundred spectators squeezed into courtroom 4, no prospect could be more inviting than a close-up look at just which experts had showered praise on which forgeries and which millionaires had dipped deep into their pockets.
For everyone else, the only goal was to wrap things up as quickly as possible. Van Meegeren had already admitted his guilt, so the prosecution had no reason to belabor its case. Van Meegeren’s own lawyer wanted to keep the trial focused as narrowly as possible, for fear of exposing his client to dangerous questions about collaboration. Van Meegeren’s many victims—museum directors, art dealers, critics, scholars, and collectors—cringed at the thought of rehashing their gullibility in public. The Dutch state, though it was prosecuting the case, was one of those mortified buyers. An examination of that purchase promised to be humiliating. So the order of the day was to proceed in a businesslike fashion and, as quickly as was decently possible, wrap up the whole fiasco.
The trial began with a scientific presentation by Coremans, featuring a slide show. The room was darkened. Dust danced in the projector’s beam. Coremans took a seat near the screen. “Welcome to Cinema Prinsengracht,” one reporter whispered.
Coremans laid out the whole story—craquelure, Bakelite, X-rays, Inspector Wooning and the wormhole.